


Beneath the Moon

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Top Ten (Comic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve, Wulf, and this day's disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a non-drabble this quickly; I do hope it is enjoyed. With thanks to Danae_b for glancing over it and making sure it wasn't horrible.
> 
> Written for Ziho

 

 

Steve's laughing with Tiki Face over something stupid, sunshine on his shoulders and grease on his hands, when he hears it. The screech of rending metal, the crumbling roar and unmistakeable whistle of wind. He looks up to see two of the new planes smashed together, tumbling out of the bright sky, trailing a black plume of smoke, and one of them is Wulf's. Steve can't feel the wrench in his hands anymore, just his heart thumping in his throat as he stands; he watches a tiny figure jump free of the wreck, parachute and jet boots deploying. It hangs in the air, almost stationary above the spiralling pinwheel of the planes as they arc down and slam into the ground.

He must have dropped the wrench. A fire extinguisher is round and slippery in his hands as he finds himself running towards the billowing black smoke, towards the crash ( _Wulf's plane_ ), and he knows he's shouting but he can't hear himself. It always goes silent when something really terrible happens, people running at top speed but looking like they're crawling. Steve's faced countless crashes, he knows what to do, he avoids splintered metal, looks around for fuel spills, douses the fires and tries to find any survivors in the confusion ( _where's Wulf?_ ).

He finds Wulf's cockpit, the hatch blown, the seat ejected. Wulf got out. Not even watching where he's spraying the extinguisher, Steve looks up, squinting into the too-bright sky. A billowing dark jellyfish resolves into Wulf's parachute, and Steve drops the extinguisher and runs towards him. Wulf's parachute catches on the windsock over the West Barn, and Steve's halfway up the side when Wulf unstraps from his harness, rolls and slides down the pitch of the roof and right into Steve's arms.

He's unhurt, tears leaking from his eyes when he pulls up his goggles. He clutches Steve's shoulders and Steve's getting grease all over his face, as Wulf shakes his head, as the sound comes back and he says, "Meteor Boy. We lost him."

******

There's a sliver of moon showing over the windowsill, and Steve watches Wulf stare into his drink, something clear and alcoholic Steve poured at random. They took a shower together to get off all the grease, and Steve feels kind of bad that he's disappointed that it wasn't hot at all. That wasn't what Wulf needed, and all Steve wants right now is to figure out what he does need, how to make him smile again.

"To Jeff," Wulf says, voice low and gravelly, and downs his drink. "To Jeff," Steve echoes, and takes a swig of water. He learned to drink water at these times two deaths ago. Ever since Wulf took over the Skysharks... Jeff Reed, Meteor Boy, was the tenth of Wulf's recruits, and the fourth to wipe out, and Steve thinks, knowing he's being unkind, the most spectacular. At least Zane and Liam just quit. 

Wulf drops his head again, even his moustache drooping, and Steve watches his shoulders slump and tells himself to shut the fuck up. Wulf put a lot into Jeff, he reminds himself, into all the trainees. He's putting a lot into rebuilding the Skysharks since John Sharkey went nuts and bombed Neopolis. He---

Wulf sobs. Steve freezes. He's seen Wulf dizzy and gasping from oxygen deprivation, grinning and covered with blood from a fight, bleeding on the floor from multiple bullet wounds, but in three years he's never seen Wulf cry. Wulf hides his face with his hand, the next sob as painful as if bits are being torn out of him, and Steve doesn't know if he should leave him alone, if Wulf wants to be seen like this. But... but he can't do that. He reaches out slowly, Wulf's broad shoulder shaking under his hand, takes the glass and puts it somewhere, while Wulf shakes his head. "Ach, lad, it just hits sometimes... he was just too young. Too young." 

He looks up as he says that, at Steve, and no, Steve's not going to let him start thinking that again. He leans forward and kisses Wulf, familiar tickle of moustache and a hint of schnapps, and feels as warm as he did under the sunshine when Wulf wraps his big hands around Steve's shoulders and kisses him back.

*******

The moonlight is filling the room, and Steve's trying his level best not to lose it. The couch isn't really wide enough for his knees, and Wulf's thighs are big and hard and strong around hs waist, and he's only been on top twice before. He'd thought, he remembers, lining himself up with a shaking hand, Wulf's expansive chest rising and falling, he'd thought gay guys fucked each other all the time, he'd thought it was about being dominated, and when Steve confessed all that Wulf laughed and kissed him and just made it gentle and easy and not about being mastered at all. And he'd smiled at Steve, the same smile he's got now, but with his eyes open and blue, not closed tight.

Wulf's gripping Steve's arms now, as Steve sinks slowly into the tight ring of his ass, gritting his teeth to keep himself under control; Wulf's so hot inside, and his sigh says this is exactly what he wanted, and all Steve wants to do is slam his hips forward, so badly he can taste it. But he remembers how Wulf did this, how he wants Wulf to feel, and he goes slowly, slowly, slowly.

And they haven't done this that much, Wulf's taught Steve a thousand things guys can do in bed, and Steve grips the couch cushion as hard as he can, Wulf's knuckles pale and tight on his arms. He can feel Wulf's breathing, feel his heartbeat where their bodies are joined, and it's hotter than noon sunlight, better than flying, than anything, and Steve's not going to mess this up. Even though his brain's as fuzzy if he'd matched Wulf drink for drink, even though Wulf groans and pushes up against him and, oh God, he's balls-deep in all this heat, but he can do this, he can make it good for Wulf. Steve bites his lip until the throb of pain beats back the wave of pleasure, at least a little. And he pulls back, slowly as he can. 

"Oh, lad," Wulf gasps, and he's getting hard again, firming up against Steve's belly. "Oh, Steve, my lad." His teeth are shining, and Steve can see their glint behind his eyelids when he hits bottom again and his eyes press shut. But when he pries them open again there are tears at the corners of Wulf's eyes, and Steve can't lean forward to kiss them away like he'd like to. He stops, all his nerves crackling indignantly at him for it, and reaches up to brush Wulf's face with his fingers. Wulf smiles under his hand, tilts his head to kiss Steve's fingers as he lets go of Steve's arm, and squeezes his wrist, pulling his hand down to the cushion. "Steve," he says, and when he opens his eyes they're so bright Steve can't breathe. "C'mon, Jetlad," Wulf says, and winks. " _Fuck_ me."

Steve gasps a laugh, gripping the couch cushion for leverage, and Wulf pulses full and hot in his other hand, and he pulls his hips back and Wulf groans when he slams forward, and Steve moans and forces his eyes to stay open, keeps watching Wulf's face, keeps watching Wulf smile and his forehead crease and the cords of his neck tighten. Steve thrusts and thrusts and he's moaning and moaning, making a racket and he can't help it because Wulf is pushing to meet him and arching towards him in the moonlight and Steve's heart feels just as close to bursting as his balls.

Wulf clutches even tighter around him, clutches his arms, gasping, "yes, ja, ah," and comes, spurting over Steve's pumping fist, throbbing in his hand, and Steve can't keep his eyes open anymore, his shout surges up from the bottom of his lungs just like his come surges up out of his cock, in long jerking shudders that leave him breathless and unstrung. He collapses on Wulf's chest, and Wulf, gasping happy little curses under his breath, pushes his hands into Steve's hair. He sounds a million times better than he did when they got home, and Steve feels hot and sticky and triumphant.

Steve hangs on to Wulf's sweat-slicked arm and licks his hand clean, listening to Wulf laugh a little and his heart pound under Steve's ear. In the back of his head a little voice tells him he's a deve for liking the taste of spunk, and he cheerfully agrees with it and sucks his fingers, then strokes them down over Wulf's ribs, chuckling breathlessly when Wulf tugs on his hair. 

"Ach, my lad," Wulf murmurs, fingers slipping down from Steve's hair over his ear and his cheek. But then his hand stops moving, and he says, "no," and Steve's heart slams against his chest as he looks up. 

Wulf is smiling at him, and his fingers trace the line of Steve's jaw. "My Steven," he says, and his voice is so warm Steve blushes, his eyes so deep Steve can't look away. "My young man." All Steve can do is nod, and tilt his head to kiss Wulf's thumb, and smile.

 


End file.
